


Where He Roams

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [24]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Cannibalism - mentioned, Gang Violence - mentioned, Heavy Drinking, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24802678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "When the devil takes your hand, let me show you where he roams!"Johnny 3 Tears, Another Level.Because a friend of mine told me I'd misheard the lyrics, so I wrote it a-f-cking-gain.
Relationships: n/a
Series: Victimised [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/910587
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	Where He Roams

**Author's Note:**

> NAMES ARE USEFUL:  
> Jorel: J-Dog  
> Johnny: Johnny 3 Tears  
> Matty: Da Kurlzz  
> Danny: Danny  
> Dylan: Funny Man  
> Charlie: Charlie Scene  
> (Mentioned only) Aron: Deuce  
> Victim; anyone you want it to be. The only requirements are that they have both hands and legs. Gender doesn't matter, Victim is referred to as 'it'.
> 
> Just to be very clear;  
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think the band has done, or has any intention of doing, anything described in this fic.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. There is no story here. It just mindless violence for no real reason.  
> 5\. Victim having any similarities to anyone real or fictional is unintentional.
> 
> For a bit of backstory:  
> Johnny has kept notebooks on past Victims, but Jorel tore a bunch of them and the burned them.  
> Charlie blew up the stove in a warehouse-apartment Matty built and now share with the rest.  
> Johnny interviewed the rest on why they kill, wrote it up and hid that under the fridge.  
> Jorel and Aron were groomed into gang violence by a guy called Big T, who they then killed before the band formed.
> 
> Reiterated warning: this fic contains rape, as well as discussions of rape.

It was rare to see Jorel with his nose in a book but here he was anyway, shut out from the world, Johnny’s year-old notebook open in his hands. His face was so close to the paper that Charlie thought if he slammed the book closed he’d just smush it into Jorel’s cheeks.

Matty was in a crouch on top of the stove, fiddling with the main gas pipe. The fridge was pulled out, handle replaced and cracks patched up with duct tape. Danny was by the emergency gas pipe, ready to flick it on at the snap of Matty’s fingers and back on again at a second snap. Dylan was holding the stove still as if he didn’t trust the flat bottom not to wobble. Charlie was banned from looking at the stove ever, so he’d relegated himself to keeping Jorel company. Not that Jorel was responding to Charlie’s small talk. Matty was passive-aggressively ignoring Jorel’s existence yet a-fucking-gain, so Jorel was passive-aggressively ignoring everyone in return. Johnny was nowhere to be seen.

Charlie twiddled his thumbs, thinking. He wasn’t the sort to let himself think for too long, he was far too prone to sending himself into self-deprecating spirals of depression and religious existentialism that’s all great to write about but not great to wallow in. He found himself staring at the bed in the corner, a knot of guilt and secrecy twisting in his stomach.

After Charlie had called Matty to tell him he’d blown up his precious stove and also their captive, Charlie had stood for a long time, disassociating as the crispy near-corpse stared back at him. He snapped himself out of it and attempted to lift the fridge. It was as he crouched there, trying to work his fingers under the fridge, that he’d spotted the envelope.

It was a flat little thing, as envelopes tend to be. Brown paper, unstamped, unaddressed, unsealed. Charlie turned it over in his hands. It was a strange place to find a letter. Even if someone had just dropped it and it somehow slid halfway under the fridge, the fridge wasn’t hard to move. As Charlie had just proved.

Charlie opened the envelope and recognised Johnny’s handwriting carved into the lined paper. Johnny had summarised everything about them and their little habits. Charlie’s porn addiction, then his snuff addiction, then his step up into real-life violence. Danny’s righteous anger and judgement of other people. Dylan’s curiosity and penchant for improvised weapons. Jorel and Aron’s gang days. Matty and Johnny’s page was shared, summarising Matty luring Johnny into this very warehouse with cocaine. Matty’s cannibalism and ‘darling’-keeping took up a page and a half. Johnny’s own violent nature barely filled six lines.

Panicked, Charlie had stuffed the pages back into the envelope and slid it into a hole in the mattress. He didn’t know what else to do with it. If the envelope was ever found all seven of them were fucked. However, if the warehouse was ever found, only the six of them were fucked with Aron left free. Charlie wasn’t about to give Aron that sort of publicity.

Since then, Charlie had been desperate to confront Johnny about the envelope, but Johnny was avoiding him at all costs. He had probably noticed that the envelope was missing and wasn’t prepared to face Charlie about it. Charlie couldn’t blame Johnny for that. He’d hoped that not mentioning the envelope in front of the guys would make Johnny realise that Charlie had no intention of telling anyone, but either Johnny hadn’t noticed or was too anxious to make that connection.

Matty snapped his fingers. There was a two-second pause, and Matty held his hands up in quiet celebration as if cheering out loud would startle the gas pipe into leaking. Danny switched the gas pipe off and on again a few times and crept away from the switch. Matty hopped off the stove, turned a knob, pressed the spark, and one of the front rings lit up.

Dylan cheered, and Jorel dropped the notebook. Matty turned the stove off, and it was high-tens all round.

Jorel kicked the notebook away. He might have accepted Johnny’s journaling habits, but that didn’t mean he had to respect them. Dylan pushed the fridge back into place and took out some hard-earned beers. Holding a stove still is thirsty work.

“An electric stove would have been safer,” Jorel said yet a-fucking-gain.

“Electric stoves use a lot of electricity,” Matty said.

“No shit!”

“And a spike like that in an abandoned area would raise suspicion. Gas ovens use less gas than electric ovens use electricity.”

“Use a generator.”

“Tend to be noisy, it’d attract attention.”

“Eat them raw.”

“No! That’s disgusting!”

“Okay, so-”

“Stop it!” Dylan cried, “Can’t you see you’re tearing this family apart!”

Jorel laughed and accepted a beer. “So long as I’m Daddy.”

“I built this place,” Matty said, sitting on the table and cradling his own beer, “That makes me Daddy.”

“Why are you asking other men to call you Daddy? That’s pretty gay dude.”

“You literally just!”

“Calm down man, we support you.”

Matty growled into his beer. Jorel and Charlie snickered at him. Danny moved a couple of notebooks out of the way to sit next to Matty, and Dylan settled himself on the rug.

“Find anything interesting?” Danny said.

“No,” Charlie answered too quickly. Danny frowned at him.

“No,” Jorel answered, “There was only a few from before we all came together and… uh…”

“You destroyed those ones,” Matty finished.

“Yeah,” Jorel sighed, “I think he’s still mad about it.”

“You only _think_?” Charlie said, “Since when has Johnny’s temper been uncertain?”

“I dunno, man. He’s been avoiding me. I’ve hardly seen him this past month.”

“Me neither,” Danny said, “Maybe he’s just busy.”

“With something he can’t tell us?”

“Just because we kill together doesn’t mean we have to tell each other everything ever,” Matty said.

“It kinda does. I’m worried about him.”

“He’s a tough guy, he can handle himself.”

“That’s not why I’m worried about him.”

Four blank faces blinked at him. Jorel sighed.

“I hate to say it, but,” Jorel said, pausing as he picked each word. He wasn’t normally the one to be so undecided on his phrasing, “If this... ‘group’… were to have a weak point…”

“It would be Johnny,” Dylan said, “Between the journals, the dissociative episodes, the lethargy towards the group and the victims, there’s a real question of loyalty. He’s not here because he wants to be, like the rest of us are. He’s here because he’s scared. Scared men do stupid things.”

Jorel blinked at Dylan. “Yeah, what he said.”

Charlie squirmed in his seat. If anyone had been paying attention to him, they’d have joked he’d been quiet for too long and was ready to burst with some sleazy quip.

“You’re worried about nothing,” Matty said, “You could make that argument about any of us. Dylan’s stoned half the time; stoned men do stupid things. Danny’s got some sort of righteous judgement bullshit going on; what happens when he gets in his head that we need punishing for all this? Charlie thinks with his dick; that can lead to him doing more stupid things.”

“The stove wasn’t my fault,” Charlie mumbled, but no one appeared to hear him.

“You’ve got your own shit,” Matty gestured to Jorel, “You’re barely less fucked in the head than Johnny is. What if you go off the shits?”

“Johnny’s different,” Jorel said, “The guy who fucked me up is dead and buried. Johnny still sees you on a regular basis.”

“And what happens when someone from your gang days identifies you? Or one of your mob links now? Johnny might be the weak link, but you’ve got too many damn links.”

“You’re hardly safe,” Dylan said, “You kept this place hidden for – what? Five years? Six? Fuck – you kept Johnny hidden here four full fucking months! What else you hiding from us?”

“I’ve got nothing left worth hiding,” Matty said.

“And four years ago you’d have told us you had nothing to hide at all, and yet you were keeping Johnny chained to that back wall while we were calling ‘round his usual rehabs.”

Matty stared into his beer.

“Look,” Danny said, “We gotta be able to trust each other. Including Johnny. Johnny couldn’t give us up, not with his fingerprints and DNA all over the place, and those journals. He’s not that stupid.”

“He could get a plea deal,” Dylan said, “Hand us over, claim we forced him.”

“No one’s gonna believe a big guy like Johnny was forced to do anything, let alone kill anybody.”

“That’s not the point,” Jorel said, “It’s not what happens when we’re captured, it’s what gives us away. Johnny comes stumbling over here, drunk, and,”

“We don’t know who’s following him,” Matty finished in unison with Jorel, “That was how you found us.”

“Exactly,” Jorel said, “He didn’t even know he was being followed. I walked right into his pad and he was asleep already.”

Dylan snorted. “Did he even make it to the bed?”

“Hardly. I think he dented the wall with his head, he went down that hard.”

Dylan and Danny giggled. Matty was frowning.

“What are you talking about?” Matty said.

“Like, he passed out so fast-” Jorel started.

“Not that. About the pad.”

“Yeah, the pad. Under the pier.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The…” Jorel glanced around the four blank faces, “The pad.”

Jorel lead them under a pier and along the beach. He chatters idly about drilling Johnny, once the bigger man was sober, on taking a less direct route to throw off mediocre tailers and cameras. Matty remembered the conversation, held in his warehouse, and had assumed that Jorel had been talking purely about following Johnny to said warehouse. In hindsight, Matty should have been more careful to clarify that with Jorel, but he had been shaken by Jorel just walking straight in after Johnny and hadn’t thought about it.

Charlie followed Jorel like his usual loyal, J-Dog’s-biggest-fan self, but his head was dipped. It wasn’t like Charlie to be so meek, or even so far behind Jorel, but Dylan was smoking a blunt and enjoying the view, Danny was grilling Jorel on Johnny’s pad, and Matty was lost in his thoughts, so nobody noticed Charlie’s prolonged quiet.

The pier loomed over them until it cut off the saturated So-Cal sky. Jorel turned inland to a metal gate set under the pier. A thick padlock sat in the bolt. Danny gave the gate a shake as Jorel pulled the padlock towards him.

“He’s not here,” Danny said.

“How could anyone be here?” Dylan said, “What you gonna do when the tide comes in?”

“There’s stairs up,” Jorel said, “You won’t drown, you’ll just be trapped until the tide goes back out. Few hours, most.”

“Okay, but why is this here? What was this meant to be?”

“What am I, a tour guide? I don’t fucking know!”

As he talked, Jorel spun the little dials on the side of the lock until the numbers spelt out 3-3-0-3. He tugged on the lock and it popped open.

“Okay, yeah, Johnny set that lock,” Matty said.

Jorel snorted. “Took me all of five minutes to figure it out.”

The gate creaked as it opened. Jorel held it open, ushered the rest through, followed them in and, with a quick look around, closed the door behind them.

Matty whirled as the lock clicked shut. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What?” Jorel said, “You want somebody following us in?”

“No. I just don’t want to get trapped in here.”

“The tide’s miles out, calm down. If Johnny’s not up there, we’ll come straight back out, okay?”

Matty glared at Jorel, but had nothing to say. Jorel smirked, and left the taunt about being more afraid of being trapped with Johnny unsaid. None of them wanted to say it, but a drunk, angry Johnny was far worse than any sweeping tide.

Dylan was leading the way up the stairs, light from his phone directed at his feet as he climbed. The stairs was the same stone as the walls and ceiling around them, and became less worn as they climbed higher, coiling around in a tight spiral. The dim flicker of Dylan’s phone was hard for anyone else to use, so cue Danny and Charlie with their own phones and Jorel with a small torch on his keys.

Dylan stopped on the top step and Danny crashed straight into him. Jorel and Matty, still trapped around the curve as Jorel gave Charlie a heterosexual amount of personal space, could hear a rattle and a series of grunts. Danny gasped and shoved past Dylan.

“Is he there?” Jorel called.

“Yeah, I can hear him snoring,” Charlie said. He stepped up the last few steps and turned off his light.

The room smelled damp and metallic. A chicken wire gate clung to the doorframe, another bolt and open lock set at hip height. Thin nets hung from the ceiling, a pathway left bare to another door opposite, torn down as they’d brushed Johnny’s head when he wasn’t in the mood for that sort of inanimate behaviour. The walls and floor were chaotic. Random things had been glued to the walls like coat hooks in a shitty life-hack video: dolls’ limbs, handles of suitcases, umbrellas and god knows what else, and even a small collection of dildos in a neat row. Wood and thick plastic had been laid over these appendages to form shelves that clearly hadn’t worked. Liquor bottles and disposable lighters sat amongst the rubble, as decorative as the rest of the room. It was hard to tell what was an item, a piece of makeshift shelf, or total junk.

Across the room the other door hung open, Johnny’s snoring, Danny’s cooing and a pathetic whimpering coming from within. Only a naked light bulb in the shelved room illuminated anything, hanging low below the nets. Danny was in the far end of the light reaching into the next room. A chain rattled, and Johnny grunted. Danny carried right on with his cooing.

In Danny’s arms, Victim whimpered and whined. It was rubbing its face in Danny’s shirt, shivering despite having only been stripped of its shoes. A chain was looped and locked around its neck, then snaked over the floor to a stack of weights in the corner.

Matty crept into the room. Johnny was passed out on the bed, fully dressed, both his legs and one arm hanging off the naked mattress making the bed look like something built for a child. He stank of gin and a bottle of it even laid a short distance from him, store-brand and barely three good swallows left.

The light flicked on. Victim cowered somehow tighter into Danny. Johnny grunted.

Matty turned. Jorel was stood with his hand still over the light switch.

“The fuck are you doing?” Matty hissed, “Are you _trying_ to wake him up?”

“Yeah,” Jorel said at a normal volume, “I’ve got questions.”

“ _You’ve_ got questions?” Dylan said, also at his normal volume, “You’re the one who knew about this place.”

“I assumed he’d have told y’all.”

“And not you? He didn’t even know you’d followed him.”

Jorel blinked. “That’s a point.”

Victim wailed. Danny was gripping its shoulders tight, grin plastered across his face.

“That’s right, baby,” he said, “We’re Johnny’s friends. We’re not here to save you.”

Victim wailed again and wrenched itself out of Danny’s grip. It backed into its corner, arms up like it had a chance of defending itself. Its hands were a mess, palms purple and swollen, fingers extending at crooked angles to each other.

“Oh, you’re cute,” Danny cooed. He hadn’t followed it, just let it cower there.

Victim’s eyes flitted from face to face, searching for any sign of genuine pity. Its gaze rested on Charlie for several long seconds, until he focused on the dense chain around its neck and palmed himself to the thought of tugging it back as it tried to flee, the way the tug would squeeze its throat and choke it, the way the choke would make its jaw drop and its eyes beg. The thoughts gave Charlie’s face something carnal, a hot hunger, and his cheeks flushed and he bit his lip. Victim’s stare wrenched away and made another round of the newcomers. Then its eyes settled on Johnny, and widened.

Johnny’s snoring had stopped. The bed creaked. Johnny grunted.

The group turned to face him. He sat on the edge of the bed, swaying a little, shoulders choking the occasional hiccup. He looked up and down each man in turn, then Victim, then Matty one more time. His mouth mangled through various shapes, a thin line of drool dripping unnoticed from his lip, but no human sound broke through his laborious pants.

“The fog rood do ha?” he slurred.

“What ?” Danny and Dylan chorused.

Jorel shoved Charlie in Johnny’s direction. “Do something.”

“What?” Charlie’s semi softened right back up, “Why do I have to do something?”

“He’s less likely to kill you.”

“Asshole.”

Johnny took a deep breath. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here.”

“Jorel brought us!” Charlie said, and even pointed as if Johnny could forget which of them is Jorel.

“Asshole!” Jorel said.

“How?” Johnny said.

“Y’know I followed you to the warehouse?” Jorel said, “I followed you here first. There was no one else here so I assumed it was just somewhere you came to crash when you were kicked out.”

Johnny blinked at him.

“I just mentioned it. We didn’t know where you were, and I when I said something about ‘the pad’ no one knew what I was talking about. So, uh, cat’s out of the bag I guess.”

Johnny blinked again.

“We’re just worried about you, bro,” Dylan said, “We don’t want you getting into trouble.”

Johnny blinked a-fucking-gain.

Matty inched forward, hands up as to not startle the drunk ex-Victim he was approaching. . The drunk ex-Victim of Matty personally, who had several inches of size and several more pounds of muscle on him. The drunk ex-Victim who had killed with his bare hands on more than one occasion. The drunk ex-Victim whose territory all five of them were currently encroaching on

Johnny rose and dove for Matty. His legs shook and dropped either from numbness or drunkenness, and his front catapulted straight into Matty.

Matty staggered under Johnny’s weight but managed to stay on his feet. Johnny pawed at Matty’s back, dragged himself back upright and glared into Matty’s face. He leered over Matty, nostrils flared, a guttural growl purring in his throat with every ragged breath.

“Fuck you,” Johnny said, and spat straight into Matty’s face.

“Sounds gay,” Matty said.

Matty was stood firm, Johnny’s hands clamped down on his shoulders and pushing him back as Johnny swayed. He maintained eye contact, even though his palms were clammy and his Adam’s apple, made prominent by his raised and defiantly jutted chin, wobbled with fear.

Johnny shook himself and hiccupped. The hiccups slowed and softened into a laugh. “You’re fucking gay, man,” he slurred, and pushed away from Matty to stagger into the shelved room.

Matty and Jorel released shaky breaths. Dylan and Charlie followed Johnny out.

Johnny collapsed by the chicken wire gate. There, indistinguishable from the rest of the junk, a beer fridge sat, covered in torn stickers. Johnny opened it and pulled out a deli sandwich, something with too much mayonnaise on stale bread. He peeled the sticker off, or about a quarter of it, and smacked the paper onto the side of the fridge. He tore the plastic open and took a big bite, and the lumpy filling spurted out into the other end of the packaging. Charlie was reminded of his teenage years, both in eating similarly shitty sandwiches as he skived off school, but also how he’d used to think semen would look in a used condom. That’s conservative sex-ed for you.

“You okay, man?” Charlie said.

Johnny nodded, having to exaggerate his chewing to get his teeth through the tough bread.

“We didn’t mean to barge in on you like this,” Charlie said, and he sat next to Johnny, “You’ve just been a little, uh, distant recently. We wanted to check in on you.”

Johnny took another big bite of his sandwich, staring at Charlie.

“You, uh, missed another Decker-Busek domestic earlier,” Charlie rambled on, “Matty’s mad Jorel’s got other alliances, Jorel wants to know what else Matty could be hiding. So, y’know, the usual I guess. The stove’s been put in, but I’m banned from looking at the kitchen lest Matty gets his panties in a bunch again. Danny thinks your friend’s cute.”

Johnny slurred.

“Say again?”

“Gives. Good. Blow. Jobs.” Johnny reached into the fridge and took out a can of cold coffee. He flicked it open with one hand and chugged the contents straight down. “Hey! Matty! Need ya!”

Matty stepped through the door, Jorel just behind. Johnny flung the empty can at Matty, and Matty didn’t even flinch as the light missile flailed in the complete wrong direction into the corner. Dylan had to stifle a laugh.

“Fuck you,” Johnny said.

Matty sighed. “Feels like I’m back in the band.”

“Fuck no,” Johnny and Jorel chorused.

“Look,” Dylan said, “We need a little talk, okay? A little intervention. Danny?” he called, “Would you come join us, homie?”

Danny appeared in the doorway, dizzy smile across his face.

“We’ll go in there,” Johnny said, almost understandable with a few bites of sandwich and a coffee in him. Understandable to his friends, at least. An unfamiliar onlooker would still only hear an elongated grunt.

Johnny grabbed a second coffee, closed the mini-fridge and staggered to his feet. Dylan stood and wrapped a supportive arm around Johnny’s waist, and Johnny leant on him as Dylan lead him into the back room.

Victim was curled up tight in its corner, watching them close. Johnny sat on the bed again. In the light, a series of dents and smears were visible in the wall where Johnny had flung himself haphazardly. Dylan and Charlie sat with Johnny, flanking him, and Danny plonked himself cross-legged on the floor. Matty and Jorel remained stood, Jorel with his arms folded like a stern father and Matty bouncing restless on his feet.

“Who’s this?” Jorel said, and gestured to the cowering Victim.

Johnny shrugged, “Backpacking tourist. Here alone.”

“That’s pretty stupid,” Danny said, and sent Victim one of his big smiles. Victim buried its face in its leg.

“How long have they been here?” Jorel said.

“Two days,” Johnny said, “I emptied the backpack and passed the shit out to the homeless. I.D. went down a drain.”

“Good work. What’s this place?”

“Storage for the pier from decades ago, ain’t used anymore ‘cause the storage units are safer. A trucker company I worked for in my 20’s bought it for storage, but didn’t ‘cause health officers were sniffing around. Any excuse to come down on the little guys, right?

“Anyway, I gave the secretary a good fuck and as she was smoking it off I shredded all the paperwork on this place. With all the shit the boss had going on, he forgot this place existed. I was gonna pretend I owned it and rent it to a guy I knew who was moving firearms; he’d stash his shit here and I’d get, say, 10% of his profits. But then he got shot so I couldn’t do that. So the place just sat here until three years ago.

“I was drunk. This asshole I used to buy from kept pestering me to buy coke. When I didn’t want it he called me a cunt and tried to mug me. I just pushed him, he fell against a dumpster and hit himself.

“This was the only place I could think of to bring him. I thought about the warehouse, but I thought I could... I don’t know… talk him into not mugging people? I guess?

“He didn’t live long. When he woke up it was like he was drunk. Couldn’t talk, couldn’t move much. Don’t think he could even see. He just laid there groaning until he stopped breathing.”

“What did you do with the body?” Jorel said.

“Waited for the tide to come in, threw him out the gate, retreated back in here. I’ve sent a couple of dozen out like that. Sometimes they wash up, usually they don’t.”

“That’s risky as fuck.”

Johnny shrugged again.

“This is Jorel’s concern,” Dylan said gently, and put a hand on Johnny’s knee, “Recklessness like that could lead the cops to you with concrete evidence. DNA or fingerprints on the body. Hell, the council could remember this place exists, send some intern down to cut your lock and find your friend over there? You’ve had a real lucky streak with this place.”

Johnny just stared at the hand on his knee.

“We’re not mad at you, Johnny,” Danny said, “We are genuinely just worried about you. We don’t want to lose you.”

Johnny managed a smile. “You’re cute.”

“I mean it. We might be a deranged bunch of killers, but we’re a deranged bunch of killers who care about you.”

Jorel and Dylan chuckled.

“Because I’m a deranged killer too,” Johnny said, and he sighed like he’d uttered a truth of the universe.

“No,” Danny said, “We’d still care about you even if you never went back to the warehouse again.”

“We’d still care about you even if you walked outta here right now and went straight to the police,” Charlie said.

The group stiffened. Why the fuck would Charlie go putting ideas like that in Johnny’s head?

Johnny rolled his head to stare at Charlie. “You’d get arrested.”

“Yeah, and we’d be mad about. But we’re going down one day, and if we go down then we go down together. That’s all that matters.”

The group nodded. Only Matty continued to glare at Charlie. While he’d known it would be impossible to remove himself from the group if one of them ‘went down’, he’d never actually agreed to it.

Johnny stared into Charlie’s eyes like they were the only thing dragging him into sobriety. Charlie stared back, trying to convey his loyalty in a look; the only thing they could share in secret in this crowded bunker.

“Okay,” Johnny said, “I’ll clear the place out. Bleach, repaint, everything.”

“We’ll help you,” Danny volunteered.

Matty glared at Danny. He’d never agreed to that either.

“You don’t have to do that,” Johnny said.

“No, we will,” Jorel said, “I wanna know you’ve done it right. I’ll take the body.”

“What body?”

Jorel nodded his head back to Victim and grinned. “You gonna off ‘em, or do you want a hand with that too?”

Danny started bouncing where he was sat, grinning up at Johnny. Dylan’s grip on Johnny’s knee loosened and fell away.

“Be my guest,” Johnny said.

Danny cheered and scrabbled upright, Dylan rising after him. They swooped the three steps it took to reach Victim’s corner. It peeped up at Danny and buried its face in its legs again.

“Come on out, baby,” Danny cooed. He gripped its shins and forced its legs out flat, “We’re only gonna hurt ya.”

Victim flattened itself into the wall as if desperation would allow it to phase into the concrete. Dylan gripped its arms and dragged it to its feet, practically kicking Danny out of the way. Danny didn’t mind and followed Victim up eagerly.

“You got a key for this thing?” Dylan called.

“Uh, yeah,” Johnny made to rise, but sank straight back down, “Above the door.”

Jorel reached the key down and gave it a jingle. He tossed it across the room to Danny.

“What happened with?” Matty flexed his hands and let the question trail off.

Johnny beckoned him, and Matty cautiously surrendered a hand. Johnny wrapped his hand around Matty’s paler one, knitted his fingers together and squeezed. Matty’s hand curled, his thumb folded tight into his palm and his fingers starting to tremble at the constriction. His nerves screamed at him to pull away, to escape this clutch before his bones caved in. Instead, he stared Johnny down as Johnny grinned up at him, then let go and tossed Matty’s hand back to him.

“Like that,” Johnny grunted, “But a little harder.”

“So you just bring people here and break their bones?” Matty said.

“Pretty much.”

“Weird hobby.”

“Ain’t any weirder than yours.”

Matty nodded.

Victim yelped as Danny unravelled the chain and Dylan half-lifted, half-dragged it over to the bed. Jorel looked over and grinned, and all the tension in his body melted away. Charlie’s hands were clamped to his crotch and rocking gently. Dylan dumped Victim on the floor and gave it a kick in the knee for good measure. It crumpled with a groan.

“What did you do with the teeth?” Jorel said.

Johnny gestured vaguely to the shelved room.

Matty tutted, “Another fucking thing to clean up.”

“Shut up, it all grinds down,” Jorel said. He crouched and dragged Victim’s face towards him.

Danny crouched with them. “Say ‘Ah!’”

Victim shook its head and wrenched itself from Jorel’s grip. Johnny gripped its hair and dragged it between his legs. His legs pressed into Victim’s sides, forcing it to sit still. He gripped its jaw and squeezed until his thumb and fingers were holding Victim’s cheeks rigid between its teeth. Or rather, its remaining gums.

Jorel leant in close and peered into the red cavern. Victim’s tongue quivered and it continued to whine, sighing its hot, foul breath straight into Jorel’s face. Jorel pressed two fingers into Victim’s mouth and forced its jaw open wider.

“Not too shabby at the front,” Jorel said, “Quite a lot of the molars left though. Kinda.”

“They kept breaking,” Johnny said.

“Yeah, they do that.”

“So,” Charlie said, and he was humping his own hands, “Can I stick my dick in there or nah?”

“Go for it bro,” Johnny said, and dragged Victim closer to Charlie.

Matty rolled his eyes. “Where’s your stuff? The pliers and shit?”

Johnny, once a-fucking-gain, gestured to the shelved room.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“Do you know where anything is in there?”

“I know where the beer fridge is.”

Matty groaned and stormed out. The group watched him go, shrugged their mutual disinterest, and returned to their victim.

By now, Victim was face down, free from Johnny’s grip but pinned under his foot. It was wriggling, its limbs scrabbling on the concrete without moving anywhere.

Jorel sat down next to Danny. Johnny lifted his foot away and dragged Victim to sit up again. Matty rustled about in the next room, throwing and kicking stuff out of this way.

Victim struggled. Danny and Jorel wrapped a hand each into their own and, synchronised, squeezed hard.

Victim howled. Its bones shifted and twisted in ways that bones are never meant to, and the pain bit deep in the swollen mess. Its fingers writhed like Victim had control of them again.

Jorel threw Victim its hand back with a bored sniff. Danny loosened his grip and pulled the hand close into his face, searching the bruised surface for treasure. He found what he wanted, just below the crooked middle finger; a particular little lump of broken knuckle. One piece of the bone had shifted into the bottom of the finger. The rest was angled up like a baying lion, the thin splinters already pressing through the skin. Danny could feel the harmless pricks as he stroked a gentle finger over the lump.

Danny adjusted his hands and squeezed again. This time his thumbs pressed on either side of the lump like a fat zit. Victim wailed and snatched its hands away.

Johnny gave Victim a good kick in the hip. Dylan grabbed its wrist and forced its hand back out. Danny took his grip on the hand and squeezed again, tip of his tongue stuck out in effort. Jorel leant into Danny’s side, watching close as Victim’s hand writhed, its body pressed back into Johnny’s legs as if he were any kinder.

Blood welled from the little pin-prick holes in the lump. It dripped, thicker and faster as Victim’s wail climbed louder and higher. The red pooled under Danny’s thumbs and ran down to its wrists.

Danny’s thumbs slipped over the lump and he swore under his breath before returning his grip. Victim’s skin squished and shifted like over-ripe fruit. Dylan’s grip on Victim’s wrist had to tighten as it tried to take its hand back. Charlie took a grip on Victim’s other wrist as it tried to bat Dylan away.

Jorel reached into the cluster of hands and mimicked Danny’s grip so the bloody lump was trapped in a square of thumbs, Jorel and Danny’s matching pitcher tattoos side-by-side. Synchronised once again, they squeezed.

The blood welled thicker and spurted, and caught Jorel on the cheek. He hiccupped something between shock and a laugh.

Danny let go and started scratching straight at the bloody mess. The piece of knuckle bone flicked up into his hand and he scrabbled to catch it. Victim trembled where it sat. It was staring at Charlie, not daring to look down at Danny’s handiwork.

Charlie tore his engrossed stare away from the piece of knuckle bone; it’s too small a bone for him. Size does matter after all. He stared into Victim’s face as it whimpered at him, begging for any sort of pity. Charlie gave it a broad smile and lowered its pulpy hand to his crotch where his hard-on pressed up on the inside of his jeans. Victim yelped and wrenched itself from his hold.

Danny was peering close into Victim’s hand again, trying to see into the ragged hole.

Matty came storming back into the room, hair on end, unidentified stain clinging to his sleeve. “How the fuck do you live like this?!”

Johnny shrugged.

“Did you find a knife?” Danny said.

“No!” Matty yelled, “It’s just fucking junk!”

“There is a knife in there,” Johnny said, “Somewhere. I think.”

“You wanna go find it?!”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Anything sharp at all?” Danny said.

“Maybe a rusty hook or something,” Matty said, “If you rip it out the wall.”

“Fucking useless,” Jorel tutted and stood. He stormed on over to Matty, herding Matty back into the shelved room.

Jorel reached up and closed a hand around the hook Victim’s key has hung on. Danny continued to probe at the hole, and Victim hissed at him. Dylan’s grip tightened but Dylan was barely paying attention.

Jorel seemed to be hanging in the doorframe, Matty’s figure almost eclipsed by Jorel’s. Jorel’s hand was still. Dylan could make out a little movement from Matty, nothing threatening. Jorel’s head moved, though it was hard to tell aside from a bob from the peak of his backwards cap.

Dylan peered at them, as if seeing them better would help him figure out what they were whispering about. Jorel’s arm writhed and dropped at last and he came back over, Matty trailing after him. It took both of them few a seconds too long to look anyone in the face.

Danny took the hook. It was a little metal thing, designed for the inside of a jewellery box. If Johnny hadn’t used it for Victim’s key no one would have noticed it.

Jorel and Matty side-by-side, Matty having to almost lie between Jorel and Charlie, legs kicked out behind Jorel, lounging back against Charlie’s side. Dylan’s stare flicked between their faces but Jorel and Matty were preoccupied watching Danny deliberate the hook and press the curved end into Victim’s hole.

Danny pulled. Victim whined, trying to pull with the hook, reaching for Danny. Dylan pulled in the opposite direction.

The pain stung, but it was a bee sting compared to the pop it had endured just minutes before. Danny’s grip on the minute hook slicked and slid away, and Victim fell back into Johnny and Dylan with a yelp.

Danny pouted. He prodded at the blood on his skin. The hook fell from Danny’s skin with a teeny clatter and spun off under Dylan’s leg.

“Not sure what you were trying to do there,” Matty said.

“Honestly, fuck you,” Danny said, “Maybe if _somebody_ had found something better.”

“Maybe if _somebody_ could keep his shit organised.”

“Hey!” Charlie snapped, “You two done?”

Matty growled at him, but didn’t answer any further. Danny nodded.

“Good. Because I,” Charlie seized Victim by the hair, “Have heard some good things about blow jobs.”

Victim flailed as its face was dragged down to Charlie’s crotch, Charlie’s free hand unbuttoning himself. Matty wriggled away before Victim could grip at him for support, half-curling into Jorel’s lap before he realised what he was doing and tore himself away at no-homo speed.

Johnny picked up his abandoned sandwich and took another bite. More of the over-mayonnaised filling spurted into the packaging. Both Jorel and Matty grimaced at the sight.

“Is that even in date?” Matty said.

Johnny shrugged yet a-fucking-gain.

“That’s not good for you.”

“Whatever, _Mom_.”

Jorel nudged Matty. “Told you I was Daddy.” And his laugh, for just a few seconds, drowned out the sound of Victim’s gagging.

**Author's Note:**

> Really wish Johnny would enunciate. 
> 
> Electricity generators tend to be loud. The two I know of are cord-pull generators (which are loud, sound rather like a cord-pull lawnmower) and fan generators (the fan needs to be tall to catch the wind, and they also tend to be loud). I also considered solar panels, but they'd look odd on an abandoned warehouse and are probably hard to buy without leaving a paper trail.  
> Gas appliances do use less gas than electric appliances use electricity. I had a landlord get snotty when a new housemoute replaced our stovetop kettle with an electric one. Landlords suck.  
> I started writing the hook thing with the intention of ripping Victim's skin open, but then realised I'd written the hook to be far too small to do so. I considered re-writing that, but hey! Sometimes you miscalculate, and that's fine.  
> Yes, Matty is hiding something. No, he didn't tell Jorel near the end, but he did say that they need to talk. They will talk. At some point.
> 
> I keep saying I'm gonna do some plain one-shots, and then I keep blatantly not doing that.
> 
> Go get a savory snack. Crisps, pretzels, slice of toast. Get that fuel, gamers.


End file.
